Author: lgandre

Here’s the thing. Just when you think you’ve learned something…or at least worked hard enough to graduate with a credible “B” on your transcript…you find that all you just went through was really just kindergarten.

Next will come first grade. Than second. Then third. Because God loves you too much to leave you the way you are.

I guess the good news is that as long as He is still pruning, we know that He has not given up. He is still a good father; watching and disciplining. He is still a good shepherd; pursuing and protecting. He is still a gentle potter; shaping and perfecting. He is still a wise friend; wounding and sharpening. He is still a merciful Savior; convicting and convincing. He is still a loving God; giving us free will; yet in relentless pursuit of making us more like Christ.

The last few months, I have been trying to be deliberate about being kind. I’m trying to use kinder words and more respectful tones. I’m trying to give a little more and expect a little less. I’m trying not to let my own needs be an excuse for selfishness.

But here’s the other thing. I’m learning how hollow even kind words can be when your heart is not them.

It’s interesting to me because all my life, I’ve been taught the counter-cultural characteristics of love found in I Corinthians 13. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love does not envy… The “agape” love described in this renown passage is that of learning to put others before ourselves. Love is the action of putting you before me.

I’ve been told time and time again that love is not a feeling. Love is a choice. Love is an action.

That’s why I don’t believe in happily ever after…or pretty much any Disney film…or Hallmark movie…because happiness in love is not the result of luck in finding the right person. Feelings come and go…as do good looks, compatibility, magical moments, and Christmas.

Romance is temporary; but love can be forever because love is not a feeling; it an action. It is a choice.

But I’ve always been a little confused by the opening part of that passage, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I have become like a sounding gong or a clanging symbol. And though I have the gift of prophecy…and have all knowledge…and have not love…”

I guess, against the backdrop that “love is the act of putting others before ourselves,” it makes sense that we could be a famous speaker and not have love…because we could be making the bests of speeches while really trying to draw attention to ourselves.

And perhaps we could have the gift of prophecy and understand knowledge and mysteries and not have love…because we are like that. We get big heads and small hearts.

But the third one has always stumped me… “And though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profits me nothing.” Give my body to be burned? Really? What selfish motive could one have in that? Perhaps you would go down in history. Perhaps you would be well thought of by those left behind. But you would also be…dead. So what good would the admiring obituary do you if you are tiny flakes scattering in the wind? Why would a selfish person give their body to be burned?

Is the author trying to tell us that an ultimate act of sacrifice can be done without love?

If so, what happened to the theory that love is an action? Can it be that a choice to do a right action is not actually love absent the feelings…the motivation…the energy…that we traditionally equate with love and romance?

I’ve noticed that as hard as it is for me to be kind, that the recipient of my kindness can sniff insincerity a mile away. Often long before I will admit to it.

While I am focused on my sacrifice, the recipient is often looking through my thinly veiled kindness directly at my tiredness, my crankiness, and my shrinking hoard of patience. While I’m convinced that I am speaking with the tongues of men and of angels, they hear only gongs and symbols.

If I’m being honest, it doesn’t seem quite fair.

Because sometimes a dry, heartless affirmation is all I have to give. And if you don’t like it, you should hear what I’m really thinking. And sometimes, the silence that may seem uncaring and aloof may be the very thinking keeping me from FLIPPING MY LID. Yep. Be glad I’m not talking right now.

I feel like I should get points for trying. For holding my tongue. For saying something nice when I didn’t feel like it. A participation ribbon at least.

But Paul seems to be telling us something different. He is, in fact, pretty emphatic: if your heart isn’t it in, it isn’t love. It’s gongs and symbols.

It’s noise. But it is not music.

So I’m coming to believe that emotion is a necessary part of love after all. That love requires ingredients of vulnerability, sincerity, and energy that transform the noise of our actions into music.

A closer study of I Corinthians 13 would support this. Love bears. Believes. Hopes. Endures. It is more than action. It is something that looks a lot like what we commonly call “emotion.”

I’m coming to believe that emotion is a necessary part of love. It is the energy that brings patience and kindness to life. It is the harmony that ties the melody of our actions to the rhythm of God’s truth.

Did I mention it’s difficult?

It might start easy and get hard. Or start hard and get easy. Or ping pong back and forth between easy and hard. But it’s subject to change; therefore, it’s difficult.

It just is. I’m convinced that the only thing harder than taming the tongue is cultivating healthy emotions. Long after we have learned to behave and use kind words we have to still force our selves to blaze trails in the mind and go where we didn’t think it humanly possible. Our emotions are the final frontier.

Here’s my conclusion:

I should still say “I love you” when I don’t feel a thing. But I should let it bother me that I don’t feel a thing. I should still use kind words when kind words are all I have to give. But I should be asking God to breathe energy into my words. I should still be gentle even when I can’t be excited, but I should ask God to set a fire in my soul.

Because love bears. Believes. Hopes. Endures. Love includes emotion; it is vulnerable, sincere, and exudes energy.

It is not just the noise of our actions; It is the beauty of our emotions that makes the music.

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It was the kind of tired when the very thought of lifting your arm and your head up far enough and long enough to send a text message seems like an impossible task.

The kind of tired that makes you pretty sure there are two hippopotamus’ sleeping in your bedroom. One is lying on your left leg and the other on your right. You’re pretty sure that absent a crane Dragging them off, you will never be able to move again.

The kind of tired that makes you think that if you you could lift your head, and if you could move your legs, you would crawl to the window, stick your head out, and declare to the madly spinning world…STOP.

Just STOP. That is all.

That was me. That was my December.

So as the new year approached, I had nothing to give. I made no plans, set no goals, made no resolutions. I scarcely noticed that the 8 at the end of the date was turning to 9 except for a feeble attempt to recharge my Scripture memory and catch my breath.

I’ve taken January a day at a time. My main goal: to get through it.

So recently, I started wondering if I could sort of start 2019 over. And asking myself…if I could, what would I do differently? Would I try to lose weight? Save money? Eat better? Work less? Read more? Pray more?

What priorities do I have that need to be reordered? What are my biggest messes that need to turn hard corners and come to Jesus?

Thinking through the last four months, I realized that more than any other challenge I face, I struggle to apply the simple admonishment: “Love is kind.” (1 Corinthians 13).

Love is kind.

I have had a lot of opportunities to apply that verse lately. And I have failed in many of them.

Love is kind.

Kindness, I’ve learned, takes extra energy. It requires humility. It demands quick forgiveness. It means extreme self control. It is a successor of patience. It feeds off creativity. And it is often exercised while clinging to the lifesaver of prayer.

Love is kind.

Kindness is not what you say, it’s how you say it. It is not what you do, it’s why you do it. It rises above the way that it is treated and gives to those whose who take and take and take.

Love is kind.

It’s sympathetic. It’s quiet when words won’t help. It’s vulnerable when tears are unavoidable. It’s slow to judge. It is wisdom exercised with gentleness. It keeps its calm in the middle of the storm.

It’s hard.

In fact, it takes practice. I know because I’ve failed a lot. I’ve tried, and I’ve still failed a lot.

But as I tried to take inventory of my life and make sense of some tough days, I sensed this recurring theme: God is teaching me to be gentle and kind.

In a world gone mad, where women want to prove themselves tough and “equal” to be men, I need to be kind.

In the craziness of the business world and the imminence of deadlines that are not being met, I need to be kind.

In the brokenness of people around me and the constant wave after wave of needs that seem so overwhelming, I need to be kind.

With my type A personality that doesn’t understand why some people are highly unmotivated and pathetically disorganized, I need to be kind.

Even in the face of disrespect, unprovoked anger, or the foggy frustration of exhaustion, I need to be kind.

I share this for two reasons:

One, many of you know me well enough to help me work on kindness. I give you permission to make me read this every day in 2019.

Two, maybe you could also use some kindness. I hope you will join me in the challenge: finding practical, creative ways of being kind. If you need to, read this every day in 2019. Or write your own reminder and send it to me.

Thinking through the first month of 2019 has helped me shape perspective about what it important. Perhaps I will set some measurable goals; perhaps I won’t. This year, I’m setting my sights on pleasing Someone who doesn’t care about check boxes and scales and bank accounts. I may never have the satisfaction of accomplishment on this one; Just the slowly growing humility the fuels a critical element of the strongest force in the world. That’s all I need.

Love is kind.

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I received word Wednesday that my Grandfather had joined my grandmother in heaven. I cried on and off through the course of the evening…sad because I miss him already. Happy, because I knew he was ready to meet the Savior He had served for so long.

I saw him last just a few days before. He lay in bed in the dim light of my aunt’s living-room-turned-hospice-care. He was weak, his speech was slurring, and he confessed that he could not remember my name. Even so, I could tell he loved me and was grateful I came though neither of us seemed to have many words.

I gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and spent a few minutes plucking out hymns on the piano by his bed.

At 101, I think we would all agree, he lived a full life. If you’ve read my other blogs, you have some idea of the incredible man my grandfather was, serving in World War II, then as a missionary in Japan, then as jack-of-all-trades in his rather long “retirement.” He was fun, hard-working, and all-together inspiring.

We loved his annual visits growing up because they were always punctuated with lots of ice cream. But since they didn’t live nearby, I actually got to know him more as an adult than I did as a kid–making long drives to Jacksonville on the weekends.

We biked, talked, swam, danced, and played lots of dominoes as they plowed their way through their 80s and 90s.

Over the years, his hand gradually grew heavier on my shoulder as he walked. Then eventually, walking had to be traded for a golf cart, a then a tricycle, then a motor chair, and finally, a bed. Aging was difficult for a man who had always been so strong and independent. Sometimes, he let it be known that he was done with this life and ready for the next.

My mother and four aunts have been amazing and over the last year have traded off spending weeks at a time caring for him instead of dropping him off at a nursing home to spend his final days smelling like moth balls and staring at a television set. [They have set a high bar for my generation. :)]

After receiving the news of his passing, all of them gathered at my aunts’ house and I joined them for a few hours. We missed seeing him in the next room, but though it was quiet, it was not an altogether somber atmosphere. Most of what needed to be said had already been said. It had been a long goodbye.

In many ways (and acknowledging that the death of no two saints will be the same), I felt this is what it should look like–no regrets, no greed, no fighting, no despair. Just a life remembered.

Today was back at work; business as usual. This evening, I busied myself with cleaning my kitchen and scrubbing the bathrooms. It was just another day.

But as I was cleaning, I came across a plastic box that Grandma had sent home with me after one of my frequent visits to Jacksonville. I thought it contained mostly legal papers she wanted me to go through so I had never really opened it.

That was the beginning of hours on my bedroom floor pouring through letters, articles, and even a few comic strips, photos, and newspaper clippings.

The clock was turned back seventy years.

My Grandfather has always been a good correspondent and a creative writer. I have saved many letters he wrote me over the years.

But now, I found fascinating his letters written to his mother from war in 1946 and to my grandmother (his girlfriend) in 1947. Some handwritten in his masculine cursive on stationary supplied by the Red Cross; some typewritten on thin sheets of tissue-like paper. Some still had envelopes stamped “U.S. Army Postal Service.”

He loved his mother. He loved my grandmother. But most of all, he loved Jesus.

Nearly every thing he wrote was woven with Scripture, his work, the gospel, and the lives of others around him. Even his love letters are beautiful expressions of a resilient faith.

In one letter he wrote of rescuing three Japanese injured in a motor crash. In another, of traveling 30 miles–by train and foot–to see comfort a desperate mother trying to care for her dying son. He wrote about purity. He wrote about burnout and the struggles faced by an Army chaplain and other chaplains who had effectively given up.

He kept a few clippings of articles he wrote–published here and there–and even kept a few of the prayer letters from the mission field (and even after their retirement). He wrote after he moved to Florida that he expected that he would fade away.

I remember seeing him the summer of 2001 and him commenting how he probably didn’t have many years left to live. He felt like the greatest failure of his life was that he had not led enough people to Christ.

I think he was wrong in both accounts–he had rich years left; and he has no reason to regret his life. He reached other teens as a high schooler; he didn’t give up as a chaplain; he pressed on as a missionary; and he didn’t fade away in retirement. He followed hard until the end.

And I’m so glad he wrote about it.

I hope to take his letters with me as we celebrate his life together on Sunday. But I also want to publish some of the highlights of his writings here…mostly for family but also for anyone interested in reading snippets of a live well lived.

Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift.

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The bright sounds of trumpet floated through the air calling children toward the station wagon parked in the middle of the village. Young children, and sometimes their parents, would gather around to hear Bible stories taught using exciting flannelgraph figures.

The ministry was thriving. Each of the three churches they started matured into and took on a life of their own. One in particular, Hamadera Bible Church, still exists to this day.

The Oestreichs added another daughter to their family, Jeannette—whom George named after his mother. Then another, Kathryn, whom George named after his aunt.

During their first furlough, when the family learned they would be adding a fourth child to the family, George promised his sister, Jeannette that she could name it if it turned out to be a girl. Unfortunately, he was traveling on deputation when Frances gave birth. She attempted to call her sister-in-law when their fourth daughter was born, but could only reach her mother-in-law. Mrs. Oestreich said she knew that Jeannette had planned to name the baby girl Marcia, so Marcia it was.

Unfortunately, she was mistaken; Jeannette wasn’t planning to name the baby Marcia. But it was too late.

The fifth child was a boy, George Washington Oestreich, named after his dad. And the sixth was named Lois, but her siblings called her “Penny.”

Not many women have six children and don’t get to name any of them. But, perhaps it goes without saying…Frances was a special kind of wife and mom.

The kids grew up going to a combination of Japanese public school, home school, American boarding school, commuting to American schools in Japan, and attending school in the US during occasional furloughs. This meant that they had pretty much lived their lives being considered “Gaijin” (which means “foreigner” or “outside person.”). Life was always changing.

One afternoon, Frances watched out the window as two boys followed young Jeannette down the street taunting her by yelling “Donguri me,” “Don gurime” all the way home; but once she reached the safety of her gate, she whirled around and yelled “Kitsune me!” (which meant “fox eyes” or “slanty eyes”) and then darted inside.

But perhaps it was for the best that they would never fully “fit in.” Home was not a town in Pennsylvania or in Japan…which meant that home was never a long, long boat ride away. Home was where a close family became closer still.

During the summers, the Oestreichs would try to spend a few weeks with the chattering monkeys at Lake Biwa, a beautiful place near Kyoto. One summer, a friend gave them a boat that had only one small problem—a hole in the bottom. George did his best to fix it and it worked—unless, of course, you count the time that it sprung a leak in the middle of the lake carrying a load of extremely proper church ladies.

Frances and her friends were none too pleased with the impromptu baptisms, but Frances shouldn’t have been too surprised. From the day at the altar, life with George had never ceased to be an adventure. Whether he was raising pigeons or dreaming up ways to make ice cream in a land with little refined sugar or dairy, George was always up to something.

Years flew by and one by one the kids left for college in the US. Their oldest child, Christine, and her husband came back to Japan as missionaries. Also, George, Jr, or “Gwo,” as he was called, returned to Japan for the summer of 1979 and spent time working alongside his parents. He was strongly considering returning to Japan as a missionary himself upon graduation from college. His best friend, Shuji, had been saved at a branch church “Midori Machi” Bible Church and was also considering full time ministry.

At the close of the summer, Gwo returned to Bob Jones and George and Frances began school themselves—teaching English and living for Jesus. They looked forward to being together again their kids the following summer during a well-deserved furlough.

Just weeks before their terms came to a close, the couple received devastating news. Gwo had been in a terrible car accident and died at the scene.

It was a blow to the whole family, but especially to his parents, who were not able to make it back in time for the service and burial.

Like most parents, they never expected to retrace the final steps of one of their children; especially their only son. He had been effectively forced off the road by a speeding driver. George even found the hood ornament from his son’s car in the tree that took his life.

They recognized the sovereignty of God through the pain, but it still seemed that his “homegoing” was premature. It was so easy to focus on the way that he had been robbed of life. He was never able to graduate from college, get married, make the ministry his own, or have a son to pass on the family name. It didn’t seem quite fair.

But George was no longer a “Gaijin.” He wasn’t just close to home; he was home.

Perhaps it was then George and Frances decided that their work in Japan was concluded. It was time to make their home in the US, closer to their daughters.

Over their thirty three years of ministry, the Oestreichs had seen Japan transition from a war-torn nation into an industrious and modern society. It went from broken and bleeding to self-sufficient and proud. Despite the Emperors’ having admitted to the county that he was not, in fact, “god,” Shintoism remained firmly rooted in the society. And while many of the young people begin to reject the traditions and chains of this dead religion, they often turned to Buddhism or to nothing at all. While the need was still great, the door that had been wide open to the gospel was gently closing.

Still, they weren’t quite ready for “retirement” if that meant sitting around a house all day. For that matter, they had never owned a house. They rented a trailer and took jobs managing the trailer park— George in maintence and Frances in bookkeeping. The thrifty ways continued and so did ministry.

And their years in Japan continued to bear fruit. Although they were few, the Christians were faithful. George’s friend Shuji attended seminary at Grace Community and returned back to Japan to serve as senior pastor.

And, of course, they continued to use every opportunity to win souls to Christ. George listened to kids quote Bible verses in Awana clubs, he led Bible studies for inmates in a nearby prison, and he and Frances both wrote cards and letters to an ever-increasing number of grandchildren…who were spread all over the world.

One week a year he would go visit grandchildren in California, and during the summers they would make the trip back to Lake Shehawken. George would ride his bike, swim, and take peaceful rides in the canoe his father had bought him when he was twelve. Lake Shehawken was a peaceful, unchanging haven in a crazy, fast paced world. In the evening, soft strains of trumpet would drift across the lake. “Trust and Obey,” “Living for Jesus,” and other hymns and choruses were never far from George Oestreich…whether coming by trumpet, booming baritone, or a happy whistle.

When George was 80, the Oestreichs moved again; this time to Penny Retirement Community near Jacksonville, FL. This was officially “retirement” although the only thing that stopped was the paycheck. It was okay; they had always been prudent with their money. They were used to having a little income…and living on a little less.

They stayed active; George rode his bike, swam, gardened, played tennis and trumpet, did landscape work, and taught Sunday School and Bible Studies. As the 80s rolled into 90s, he complained that the folks in his Bible study were getting old and didn’t focus very well. But he stuck with it, noting some of the residents in the memory ward could often sing hymns from memory even when they seemed to have no other recall.

Grandma faithfully cooked and cleaned and managed the finances in addition to her own volunteering activities—sewing, arranging flowers, serving meals, and more. She kept up with the names and birthdays of the five daughters, sons-in-law, nineteen grands, grands-in-law, and non-stop great-grands (28 I think…at last count).

If their family had one complaint, it was that George and Frances were too far away. They took turns trying to convince the Oestreichs to move closer to family. But they seemed content to live their simple, slowing life in Florida where they prayed together every morning and played Dominoes every night.

They held out until the end of 2016. He was 99. She was nearly 98.

——————————————————————————————

And here is where I step into the story. Because I was there to help them with their final move.

It was not difficult because Grandma had reduced their lives to two rooms and, even then, did not seem attached to the few things they had left. They did not want to do long goodbyes. They did not want to do goodbyes at all.

I felt bad for them…although we wanted them closer and believed this move was for the best, I hated the thought of them leaving their friends. Of them having to start over at life. Of having to adjust to a million little changes from where the toothbrush would be kept to what meals would be like. Change can be difficult no matter what the age; I couldn’t really put myself in their shoes and understand what it would be like for two dear saints in their late 90s.

But when I asked Grandma if she was sad to leave, she said, “Wherever you go, you’ll have friends…if you’re friendly.” After years of being a “Gaijin,” she was no stranger to making friends. Again.

But I knew underneath her resolve, there was a realization that it would be hard to make friends this time. She was nearly blind, on oxygen, and she had outlived all of the folks who could identify closely with her life experiences.

As we pulled out of Penny Farms, I turned around to see my grandparents in the seats behind me embracing this new adventure the same way they had done all of the others…holding hands.

I smiled. She would not be lonely. Grandma’s most important friends were coming with her.

(Stay tuned for the fourth and final part – “Celebration of a Life Well Lived” coming soon.)

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The taxi pulled up to Hampden Dubose Academy in Mount Dora, Florida. George was nervous as he jumped out and prepared to execute his surprise visit on Frances. He hoped to lie low and not create a big stir among the tight knit staff and students as he called on her.

It wasn’t that he needed to be nervous exactly…since their chance meeting during his first furlough back to the states, they had been writing.

Frances had been teaching at Hampden Dubose Academy for seven years; and while the ministry to Christian children of missionaries had its joys (including time teaching students such as Elizabeth Elliott); her family said (perhaps a bit tongue-in-cheek) that the long hours and no pay had turned into borderline slave labor and nunnery. Her family encouraged George to “get her out of there;” and George’s sister (who had been roommates with Frances at Wheaton) offered helpful hints along the way. The families seemed to be all for the union.

In addition, not being big on suspense he had written her before leaving on this second furlough and asked her to marry him and she has said yes. So this surprise was just…well…the fact that he was there. And the ring, of course.

But it turned out to be George that got the surprise at Hampden Dubose. Or rather, he learned there is no such thing as surprises at Hampden Dubose. The first girl he saw offered to help George find Frances. But, unbeknownst to him, she was the headmasters’ daughter and tipped off both Frances and her parents that he was there before he even found her. And while his reception by Frances was warm, his overall reception at Hampden Dubose was quite cool. They didn’t want him to take her away.

Five months later, June 5, 1948, George and Francis were kneeling side by side in Canadensis Moravian Church. Her in her wedding dress, and him with a gaping hole in the bottom of his shoe. The depression years had been good preparation for mission life; he was (and still is) that tight.

[If you missed it, read more about their nearly 70-year marriage in this blog.]

George’s second tour in Japan had only served to convince him even more of the unique need and opportunity for the gospel. George had been assigned to a chapel in Hamadera (Osaka). Whole families from the US moved there as part of the occupation and the two groups were integrating as Japanese often worked for them as household help. His new chapel soon became a mix of American and Japanese. It was the first time in their lives that these Japanese had the freedom to read or even own a Bible.

And while most Allies were struggling with a hatred for the Japanese after the brutalities of the war, George had an unusual love for them. Perhaps his lack of racial prejudice traced back to the way he saw his mother eat with, pray with, and celebrate with Maddie, their black housekeeper in his early years.

During the war, he had not had much direct interaction with Japanese since he saw only one Japanese surrender…an old blind man who came out of the jungle with a rice sack tied to his sword. Even then, George had done his best to protect him and even get treatment for his medical needs. The old gentlemen was in such poor shape, he had maggots even in his eyes. The old man didn’t understand his kindness and neither did the other soldiers. It was all he could do to keep him alive long enough to reach the aide station.

And George had seen enough of the Japanese cruelty to understand the animosity. His responsibilities had included not only spending final moments with dying soldiers, but also writing to their families afterwards. Even worse, during his time in Manilla, he saw the aftermath of the atrocities committed to women and children.

Maybe that was why the Japanese were so surprised by the civility of the American occupation forces. Despite the bitter traces of the atomic bombs, the Japanese were anxious to learn English and learn from the tall, white Americans busy releasing the grip of the Emperor who, until now, had been not only their dictator, but their god.

Ministry in Japan took off immediately with receipt of a telegram. Another missionary named Esther Bower who worked near the Mikimoto Pearl farm (on the East Coast of Honshu) needed help restoring their bombed out mission. Together, they were able to start a church and a kindergarten.

So after kneeling at the altar holding hands with a man with holes in his shoes, Frances stood up to a new adventure as wife of a missionary headed to the war torn nation of Japan. There was no candidate school, language school, or transition time. She and George would visit churches, start a new “Mino” mission, share about the opportunity to minister in Japan, begin a family, take a long boat ride across the Pacific, and begin a new diet of fish and rice.

George’s brief time in reserves came to an end when he found out he had been given orders to Korea. The orders had been sent to Philadelphia by mail and then, slowly, by boat to eventually catch up with him in Japan. By the time he received them, he was already considered AWOL. There was nothing to do but write back and let them know that his service in the US Army was over. He was fulfilling a different set of orders: that of “bringing the blessing of the gospel.”

(Stay tuned for Part III…because stories worth telling just can’t be rushed.)

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But this time, it also held one special note. A card from my grandfather. The same one whom I’ve been telling everyone who will listen about…because he just turned 100.

Yes, he’s one hundred…That means he was born in 1917. When Woodrow Wilson was president. The year that the US declared war on Germany. When the average house was $3,200.

A lot of life has been lived since then; and it has had a lot of pretty remarkable moments.

Grandpa was the grand son of a poor immigrant, John “Henry” Oestreich, who started out as a newspaper delivery boy. His father, George W Oestreich Sr was a factory worker, turned dental salesman, turned dental instructor, turned restorative dentist. He married in 1916 and my grandfather, George, came a long soon after followed by two girls.

His happy childhood memories included a dog named “Rags” who followed him home, and canoeing on the lake near the cabin his father built in the Catskills. As the sun would sink over the mountain, he would often sit on the porch and play “Taps.”

George was inspired to play the trumpet when he went with his father to Willow Grove and heard John Phillip Sousa lead the US Army Band in “Carnival of Venice.”

But life took a pretty drastic turn when his father died relatively suddenly George’s senior year of high school. The Great Depression hit soon after and the stock market crash took most of Henry’s investments in the building and loan with it. But a few of Henry’s friends from Wharton School of Business stepped in to help save some of his stock in AT&T, Dupont, and Philadelphia Electric so that they were able to keep the family home.

Geroge’s mother went to work and so did George. First at LD Caulk Dental Supply and eventually also taken classes at Wharton school of business.

It was around that time that George really began to take his faith seriously, getting involved in “fishing club,” playing the trumpet and bringing friends to enjoy fellowship in the home of a local business man.

He soon transferred to Temple University–hitchhiking to school each morning and heading to work each night. It was not an easy road–even when he got a lift. The professors were not appreciative of his stand for his faith–one even failed him out of spite. During the summers, he still went to the Catskills and would work for the farmers milking cows and threshing wheat.

His final year of college he spent at Wheaton where he recalls doing Greek homework with Ruth Bell–A young missionary kid who would later marry a frequent chapel speaker name Billy Graham.

It was also there that he met Frances Mikels. But that part of the story was still long from being written…despite the long walks in the cornfields.

Dr Harry Ironside came to Wheaton and encouraged students to come to Dallas for seminary. George would soon find himself in Texas under the teaching of Dr. Ironside and Dr. Lewis Sperry Chafer. He served as janitor to earn money and against the odds, resurrected a closed church in Grand Saline (home of Morton’s Salt Mines). There he would play trumpet while a young parishioner played the sax.

God would use two years pastoring this tiny church as the experience he would need to get a position as an Army chaplain.

It was 1944. World War II was reaching its climax. After training, he boarded the Admiral Eberly on its maiden voyage and head to the Pacific Theater. His arrival in Manilla was timed just as General MacArthur was fulfilling his promise to take back the Philippines. He road a jeep up a bull dozed road through the mountains until the road gave up. Then he finished the hunt for the 25th Division alone and on foot.

By the time he found his troops, he was out of daylight to dig a meaningful foxhole. He would get his first introduction to the sounds of war in a shared foxhole with shrapnel falling around them. It was a long night.

After the war was officially over, George was sent to Japan with the occupation forces traveling through Wakeama to Osaka, Kyoto, Nagoya, Shizuoka, and Gifu and finding divine opportunities to connect with Christians who, up to this time, had been in hiding for fear of severe persecution.

He keenly remembers one evening when he was walking by himself through a tangerine orchard and heard a hymn being sung. It led him to a house where he boldly knocked on the door. When the Japanese gentleman opened the door to see a US soldier, he quickly slammed it again. But George was nothing if not persistent. He kept knocking and perhaps it was the cross on his lapel that caught the eye of his new Japanese friend. George was invited in and took part of the family devotions…the family singing hymns in Japanese and George singing the same hymns in English.

When George left for his first furlough, his new friend came to the train station to say goodbye. George said, if I come back, what do you want me to bring you?

The elderly gentleman, living in a desolate country in a desperate time replied simply, “bring us the blessing of the gospel.”

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It was a beautiful evening and I was out for a walk—partly so I could enjoy the nice weather, but mostly so I could make my Fitbit proud of me.

It’s the little things in life…Namely, the apps, that make me feel like a smashing success or a dismal failure. While we are talking about apps, I thought you all were probably dying to know how my Scripture memory resolution was faring. (We are the better part of halfway through the year—believe it or not!)

And if you read my New Year’s post, you know I tried to make Scripture memory a priority and started two aid and accountability systems—Fighter Verses via the App, and Beth Moore’s SSMT Group.

Fighter Verses has been a good thing. It assigns a verse each week and has audio and even musical queues to help you learn the verses. It also has little review quizzes to help you to keep from flushing out previously memorized verses. So when I’m sitting on an airplane, I can easily be mistaken for the Millennial mindlessly playing Candy Crush, when, in fact, I’m madly reviewing my year-to-date Scripture.

If you’re interested in my mid-year review of Fighter Verses: Some of the Scripture songs are better than others and a few are downright annoying—especially when they do a looong musical intro, then rush through the hard parts, and then repeat, repeat, repeat the easy parts. But after having tried a few, I know how hard it is to put a verse to music word for word, so I’ve got to give them some respect.

I will mention though, that while at the beginning of the year my biggest struggle was trying to re-memorize previously memorized verses in a different version, Fighter Verses has made me step up my game. In fact, I stopped trying to keep up completely when they started cheating—putting 2, 3, or even 4 verses together for one week. That’s just too much for my little brain. Especially when they put all of Psalm 103 in one song. It was 22 verses in one four minute song. The passage was broken over seven weeks, but in order to learn it, I must have listened to it 150,000 over those seven weeks. I felt like a toddler with a new book.

[And I still messed up the passage when I tried to quote it to my three-year-old niece. She quoted about 20 verses to me in a row, so I tried to match her and I got tangled up somewhere and kept repeating and repeating like an old record player. I’d fire Fighter Verses except that I only paid them $2.99.]

Anyway, I decided to settle for sticking with one passage for two weeks (skipping one) when they pull a trick like that. The handy app lets you mark which passages you memorized so only they show up in your review bank. Works pretty well. (I love defending an app from my own accusations.)

Thanks to Fighter Verses, I’m up to 40 verses this year, and I frequently listen to Scripture songs in the car, while straightening my hair, cooking dinner, or going on walks. It’s worth $2.99.

Anyway, so back to the lovely evening when I was out for a walk.

I was actually not working on my verses that evening. Nor was I having a pleasant time despite the agreeable weather and quiet atmosphere.

I was thinking about everything that I want and don’t have. I was meditating on my unmet desires and my fears. One thought led to the next and the next until—without even calling it to mind—my lips began to sing, “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom…”

It was my memory passage for the week. And it just popped out. Singing it through took my mind to another passage, “If God spared not his own Son, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?” Romans 8:32

My attitude completely changed standing on a foot bridge in the sunshine and watching the limbs above me sway in the breeze. Your Father’s good pleasure to give you the Kingdom.

My earthly father would want me to have good things…how much more does my father in heaven? And while my earthly father would work hard to give me the best he could, my heavenly father owns and rules the kingdom. His resources are limitless. And He gave His Son. What will He withhold if He didn’t stop at that?

The passage goes on to impart eternal perspective… “Sell your possessions and give to the needy. [Because there are so many with so much less!] Provide yourselves with money bags that do not grow old. With the treasure in the heavens that does not fade, where no thief approaches and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Luke 12:32-34

Fear not; put your heart in a place where it is eternally safe.

I don’t know how my evening would have gone had I not been in this Scripture Memory challenge, but I will volunteer that this was not the only time that a passage I’ve worked on has given me an insight or an attitude adjustment. Psalm 103 is full of nuggets of truth that remind us that God is a loving, forgiving heavenly father who fills our lives with good things. Many, many times it has been a lifeline for me. Maybe not 150,000 times. But still.

Before I close, I’ll also offer a quick review of the Beth Moore “SSMT” as well. Basically, this plan is biannual and it challenges you to choose 24 verses and tackle one each first and fifteenth of the month. You write the verses on a 3×5 card spiral and also share them as a comment to a blog each time along with hundreds (maybe thousands) of other women. She gives you two excused absences on the comments over the course of the year and invites you to a big party if you finish and can quote all 24.

I’m not planning on the party, but I did think it would be a good way to make sure I actually got the verses into my head well enough to make them stick. So I committed to SSMT too.

My honest experience: I’ve lost the spiral once already and started over…only to find the original one again. Did my best to get back on track. I’ve gotten behind posting verses a time or two (and used one of my excused absences) but I blame that partially on the fact that they have a somewhat confusing system on where and how you are supposed to post the verses. Even now, nine times in, I have to hunt around to try to find the right blog post or Facebook post to comment on. I’m not the best or the brightest, but I’m also not a complete dunce, so I feel like there is a little room for improvement there. Just sayin.

Anyway, so bottom line is, because of FitBit, I’m trying to walk more; and because of my Scripture memory resolution, I’m trying to work on Scripture when I walk…or anytime. And while they will probably announce in a few years that FitBits cause cancer (along with Goji berries and Chia seeds) I am confident that the time invested in Scripture memory has no harmful side effects and is good for so many things including dispelling the daunting fears of this little member of this little flock.

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The kids in Sunday School proffered their feelings of sadness as we opened class.

“I’m going to miss Uncle John.”

“Me too.” Another agreed. “He was always so nice.”

“He called me his grandkid.”

“He always cheered the loudest for me. I could hear him yell my name…”

They were talking about John Gates.

John came into our lives through a simple act of kindness. He was attempting to trim some overgrowth in his yard one day and Curtis happened to be driving by. John had suffered a stroke and was almost complete paralyzed on one side. This made it extremely difficult for him to maneuver the clippers. Curtis and his sons jumped in and were able to make short work of the lawn care.

As they talked, Curtis learned that John was in need a of a lawyer. After years of making payments on his home, he was being told that the checks were not owner-financed mortgage payments as promised, but simply rent. Instead of turning over a deed, the owner wanted to turn him out. Unfortunately, John had been on disability for years and did not have funds to pay for an attorney.

So that was how I first met John; When the Bostic Law Group took his case. Which, I might add, we won. John was in tears when he thanked us for our help. He got to keep his home and we got a new friend.

In fact, John began showing up regularly at church. Despite his severe limp, he would work his way down to the front to sit with the Bostics whom he called, “his family.” He would often then often join them at home for lunch, chatting with Jenny as she would finish preparations. The stroke had left him to struggling some for words and stuttering a little bit, but that didn’t stop him. The man could talk.

I hung around some too and heard him share about his life and background. As best as we could put together all of the pieces, it appeared he had a rough upbringing and some even rougher adult years. In fact, it seemed that the litany of health issues that he dealt with were partially caused by years of drug abuse.

But despite whatever the challenges of life had been, he had kept his tender heart and sensitive nature. And in very little time, the whole church started becoming his family. I remember when Curtis and Jenny threw him a birthday party.

His first birthday party.

Most people thought he was turning 70, but in fact, he was only in his early fifties. And he was as excited as a kid. We were celebrating his first birthday party, but he was celebrating his first family. I remember watching him cry as we sang to him in the law firm conference room.

I thought Curtis was a little crazy when he suggested taking John to Disney World. That generally isn’t where you take fifty-somethings who struggle to walk (even with a cane), have one arm in a sling, have no children or grandchildren, and have frequent health struggles.

But John said it was on his bucket list. So we loaded up and went to Orlando.

And we had a grand time. Curtis rented motor scooters for John which helped him get around and helped all of us get in the “short line” everywhere we went. I felt mildly guilty cutting in front of the poor vacationers spending their whole day weaving back in forth in the long lines. Don’t worry, the feeling passed.

We even went to Sea World, and Stephen got John’s picture on the big screen during the Orca pre show. I doubt he ever forgot that.

One of my favorite memories of John was when I got assigned to a dessert contest judging panel with him and one other guy. After talking about his judging responsibility for days (and telling everyone not to tell him what dessert they were bringing), the time finally arrived for us to taste the huge spread of delicious looking pies, cakes, and cookies.

That’s when he announced that he was allergic to all nuts, berries, and chocolate. So…my apologies to everyone who entered that contest. It was rigged. Sorry.

I think having more to life than watching TV did great things for John’s health. He even seemed to be regaining some of the use of his paralyzed limbs. Weeks before the big day, he asked me to spot him while he walked to the front of the church one morning because he planned to do it without his leg brace. It was a huge deal to him as we paraded to the front—him carrying his cane and me carrying his brace. It was a good reminder to me of the little things we take for granted every day, like two good legs.

Over the years, folks at church helped John in various ways. Jay and Anita brought him meals. Jenny drove him to the hospital a few times. Families like the Sterretts had him over for meals. People included them in their Thanksgiving and Christmas plans. Mary Lou helped care for his dog and would take him to Walterboro to watch the young people from church show horses. He talked all the time about how much fun he had watching them win ribbons.

John wasn’t just a on the receiving end of love and attention. He liked to “pay it forward” as it called it. He took an interest in all the kids at church, but particularly fell in love with the Remember Hope Children’s Home. He sponsored two girls in Burma faithfully, sending small gifts or funds for them to purchase new school uniforms. He was very proud of his efforts to procure hundreds of pencils, pencil sharpeners, and erasers with the help of the fine folks at the Dollar Store.

Last Tuesday, Jenny hosted another birthday party for John. Little did she know, it would be his last. It was Mary Lou who found him lying unconscious in his home a few days later when she stopped by to give his dog some meds. He passed away quietly at MUSC.

He can walk without his leg brace now. And he doesn’t need me to spot him.

John didn’t leave behind a lot by way of worldly possessions, but as Curtis went through his things he found what was perhaps most important to him—letters and cards written by members of our church over the years. I’m so glad he didn’t die a lonely old man with nothing to do but watch a TV set. He died a member of a huge, loving family.

The next day, I sat with some friends who were explaining to me why they didn’t go to church any more—just watched a service on TV. I thought about Charleston Bible Church and the incredible way this body of believers welcomes and loves others whether or not they can pay it back or “pay it forward.” I thought of our meaningful worship, solid Bible teaching, and practical encouragement for godly living. These folks are missing out.

I told them I loved my church and a little bit of why, but I didn’t say enough though. Or perhaps I said too much.

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One of the many gifts I received from the kids (others included custom jewelry and original artwork).

So I just got back from Burma. Yes, I still call it that.

I get excited when we break through the clouds to see the rice fields dotted with golden pagodas. As much as you can get excited when you’re brain dead and saddle sore from 24 hours of travel.

Burma is fairly homogenized–80% Buddhist. Yet diverse–there are over 250 languages. It has breathtaking views. And ugly slums. It’s GDP per capita is well below the poverty line (about the same as Syria). Yet, there are the very rich. In fact, I was shocked that the Rangoon airport is now home to high-end retailers such as Bolova, Swarovski, and Dolce and Gabbana–a sign that Burma (where we couldn’t use plastic of any kind up until a few years ago) is rapidly changing.

Some things needed to change. Decades of violence, persecution, and poverty.

And a few memories I want to hold on to forever.

Time won’t permit me to do more than scratch the surface, but here are a few snapshots from this recent trip.

Long Drives. Long Days.

We waited several hours for our pick up ride to Hope. There’s nothing quite like spending four days in travel for five days in country…and then spend the better part of the first day waiting for a ride.

My “to do” oriented mind took a little while to adjust to new pace. But I really had no choice. And before long, I was loving how I lose all concept of time in Burma. I can go an entire day without looking at a calendar or a clock.

I spent a lot of time driving around in the back of a truck last week. And a lot of time just sitting with a kid on my lap. Or walking around holding little hands.

I did nothing. I loved it.

The Joys of Hard Work

A lot of hard work was done while we were there. Just not by me.

The official purpose of our visit mostly centered around the finishes for Hope Children’s Home, the facility Remember constructed in 2015. We have been investing in the lives of about 60 kids from difficult (or non-existent) family situations over the past several years.

The men on the team worked diligently on woodworking, plumbing, and electrical needs. I love how they incorporated the kids into their work and started teaching them valuable trade skills.

And then in the evenings, they would join in and play, sing, and strum guitars with the whole bunch.

They even wore the “man skirt;” Longyi.

New Clothes.

When we arrived, I couldn’t miss just how grungy some of the kids looked. Especially the little ones. They have neat, clean school uniforms, but on days when they are off, anything will do. And I mean anything. In fact, it doesn’t have to be clothes; tattered pajamas work just as well. Not only would the fashion police have locked them up permanently, but during this “dry” season, the dirt had no respect for their laundry efforts.

I was especially taken with one of the youngest little girls. She was making do with a tank top that was so ill fitting, the neck line hung halfway to her waist. In the modest culture, she made up for the lack of fabric by wearing a fleece jacket with a broken zipper. She tried to hold it closed but it was eighty something degrees, and beside that, it’s hard to play frisbee while holding a jacket closed.

I was kind of surprised since we have brought and bought the kids clothes recently. But then, I’m still learning about how things unfold at Hope. So we made it a point to at least get some new shirts for all the younger girls. Not trying to leave anything to chance, Anita and I brought them inside and had them each change into their new shirt. But soon as we sent them on their merry way, they changed back into their old shirts. Maybe they were saving the new ones. Maybe they were too young to care. But we weren’t clothes heroes this time around. Kinda funny in a way.

Mind you, I did confiscate the ill-fitting tank top. And I have no regrets.

Yes, they’re all girls…Keeping their hair short is typical until they are deemed old enough to take care of it.

Learning Names.

I’ve been to Burma ten times. And I’ve learned about ten names. Maybe.

They are just hard. They are all different, yet all the same. So…foreign.

So this time, I tried. Really tried to learn their names. I didn’t get them all, but you can see I had good teachers:

American Isn’t All Bad

Two words: look closely.

The Second Plague

So, just to give you some context on this one, I hate frogs. They are spiders, snakes, and mosquitos all rolled into one for me. There is something about croaking sliminess that jumps that I prefer to live with out.

So here you go:

Yes, that is a frog on the toilet paper roll.

Croak.

But that wasn’t the worst. Here’s the moment that could have made you rich if you had it on video:

I was in the girls’ dorm where we were trying to do a bit of a makeover on the bathroom. I tried to demonstrate for the little girls how to take a shower in the inside stalls–instead of the outside cistern.

Since my Burmese is rather, uh, limited, I was relying heavily on charades to explain to them what and how while fully dressed in one of the stalls. I thought I had a rapped audience until one of the girls’ interrupted:

“Teacha…Pappa!”

I looked where she was pointing in time to see an enormous frog perched on wall inches from my nose.

So the demonstration ended rather abruptly into giggles as I jumped out of that stall faster than was probably necessary to avoid being eaten alive by the slight green monster.

Curious George

One of the boys asked me to read to him and I promised I would after dinner. Then I promptly forgot.

But he didn’t forget. After dinner, he sought me out with Curious George in tow. We settled down in the library and I read the book. Then another. And another. And another. And another. A small group listened attentively through eight full Curious George books.

The craziest part: they couldn’t understand a word.

They listened attentively through page after page of Curious George randomness in a foreign language.

These kids are so different. So much less saturated in media and entertainment. So much more willing to engage in simple games–bubbles, Frisbee, or hopscotch. They love to laugh, love to play, love to give, love be affectionate.

Mind you, they are still kids. Still under construction. Still in need of discipline. Teaching. Parenting. But for everything I could teach them, there is something they could teach me.

They are lovely in a way that their mug shots just don’t communicate and in a way that made me absolutely fall in love.

Dirty Faces

One more story that I just have to tell. The little ones and I were entertaining ourselves by making music videos. It was good fun all around. But we got to one particularly cute song and I accidently messed up the settings on my phone and it turned out like this:

Again, using charades, I tried to explain to the little crowd of girls (and boys who had joined) that their faces were washed out and we needed to re-tape. I kept trying to demonstrate until the light bulb seemed to come on for one of the girls and she began urgently explaining the problem to the other kids.

“Sorry! Sorry!” They all chorused and went running off.

I was completely surprised to see them all rush to a tub of dirty dishwater and vigorously scrub their faces. They were still apologizing when they got back until I was the one in tears apologizing.

They thought I was telling them we needed to redo it because they were dirty. They thought I didn’t like runny noses and crusty eyes. But it wasn’t that at all.

I need to learn Burmese. I love these people

Evening Devotions

After dinner, the kids had devotions. They play guitar and sing beautifully. They especially love to sing into a microphone being blasted through a needlessly large amp cranked up enough to make an airliner need earplugs.

Some songs they sang in English including:

This is my desire
To honor You
Lord, with all my heart
I worship You
All I have within me
I give You praise
All that I adore
Is in You

Lord, I give You my heart
I give You my soul
I live for you alone
And every breath that I take
Every moment I’m awake
Lord, have Your ways in me

I don’t know that they understand the lyrics completely. Maybe none of us do. But I know this: I want them to understand. I want them to mean it. And if a passion for Christ can be shared, I hope we understand and mean it well enough that we can share it with them.

And I hope it requires a few more trips.

After praise and testimonies from the team, we prayed together. In fact, they had our team gather and they surrounded us and prayed for us. All sixty of them. All at once. It was my turn to not understand a word. But it was the most beautiful sound. Sixty young voices lifted in heartfelt prayer for us.

I cried.

And if you were there, you would have too.

There you have it. I’ve taken several thousand words and I’ve barely scratched the surface. But it’s the best I can do in a single blog post.

And to all of you who sponsor these kids or to gave to the construction of Hope, so many thanks! Maybe, one day, you can come and get your own fresh cut flowers, original artwork, and custom jewelry. And maybe you can be part of passing on a passion for Christ that enables us to sing together: Lord I give you my heart…have your way in me.

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In my last blog, I promised a 2017 list coming soon. Turns out, today is as soon as I could.

So here’s the list. Things I’m thankful for. Not exhaustive and not in any particular order..

1. Costco is carrying Lindt dark chocolate. Thank you. Why did that take so long?

2. My large…VERY large…collection of original artwork. After years of being an Awana leader, Sunday School teacher, first grade aide, babysitter, and aunt (now of 18!), let’s not forget missions trips…I now have a home museum in a box.

I would put my collection up against that of anyone’s. At least in quantity. I haven’t kept it all. I just couldn’t wihout renting a self storage unit. But just the same, I have a bunch of treasured creations from little people everyone. And I love it!

3. While I’m talking about my art work, and, because I found so many while sifting through artwork, I’m thankful for all the notes friends have written me over the years. If you ever wrote me a meaningful note, I probably still have it. You may not even remember it, but I probably read it last week and cried. Because, sometimes, that’s what I do when I’m happy.

4. My garage. And the ability to get in my car in the rain with all the junk I’m forever toting around getting soaked in the Sunday morning downpour.

5. Sundays… NFL… Patriots.

6. Hope.

I’m convinced hope is the most painful of all virtues. Because it doesn’t let me give up when I want to give up. Won’t let me quit when I want to quit. Makes me hang on when I want to let go.

Hope is so stubbornly stubborn. Like a kudzu vine it keeps coming back. Like a pitbull… once it clenches its teeth, it’s just done. Decision made.

Despite all of the frustrating miscarriages of hope here on earth; I’m thankful for the highest calling of hope: to anchor us to heaven. Hope will attach our soul to the life to come in unforgettable, unquenchable, unyielding confidence that makes all of life’s disappointments not matter. I’m thankful for hope.

7. Flowers. Especially roses. But also tulips. And daisies. I can’t seem to grow any of the above, but I think they are beautiful just the same..

8 Kara Tippetts and the legacy she is still passing on a few years after her transition to heaven. She knew a think or two about faith and hope. I started to blog about her a while back, but I lost my work in a computer glitch and I concluded it just wasn’t meant to be. I probably couldn’t do it justice.

But I’ve read all of her books and I just thought: wow.

9. Stuart…all my family actually. But Stuart is the newest member. I got to hold him on Christmas when he was just a few hours old. He is a keeper.

While we’re at it, here’s Riley…giving me a private ukulele concert.

I’d better stop here before I get started…remember…I have 18 and they are all the best!

10. Weather and the variety of seasons…and the fact that even some of the grayest of days have moments of grace and episodes of sunshine.